It Won't Do
by littlehands
Summary: BooneShannon preisland fic Boone's musings on Shannon, while sharing a hotel room with her.


_It won't do  
to stir a deep desire,  
to fan a hidden fire  
that can never burn true.  
I know your name,  
I know your skin,  
I know the way  
these things begin-_

There is a pink razor on the sink, practically neon against the gray marble that frames the taps. Her crap is spread out over every flat place, the lip of the wide tub, the top of the toilet - she leaves bottles and brushes in her wake. His mother always insists that they share a room, it's not that they can't afford to get fucking penthouses for a small nation, it's just to play up the idea that they are this perfect blended family. Like they still have family dinners on Mother's line of china - perfect for a candlelight supper.

Boone knows better, he sees through all the mists and shadows. His real father left ages ago, the dead of night, in the lawsuits and trials followed, with a younger version of himself blaming it all on the fact that he wasn't a good enough. Now his step-father was dead, no trials this time, just a reading of the will which was almost comedic in the way the factions of the family fought. He stayed silent the whole time - wasn't his father, the man hadn't ever cared about him anyway, even Shannon for that matter.

They were just one fucked up family, maybe he should have seen this coming, everything that was to happen. But now, in the spotless, cold room in New York City, everything was just a blur.

Winter, the streets were covered with snow, it hasn't stopped since he woke up this morning, a drift starting to form on the frame of the window. There was no way that they could make the drive home tonight, even in Shannon's huge SUV. So they were stuck, him and her, in one room - two beds.

He picks up his own razor, shiny black and sharp. The mirror is slightly fogged with the steam from Shannon's shower; she could take eight of them again, one for each change of clothing. With a trained hand he shaves, mind wonders out the cracked door, and pictures her lying on the bed, sighing softly.

Nothing wrong with that image, he tells himself, he's sharing a room with her. But then it changes, shifts with edited precision. Now she's lying on the bed, skirt bunched up exposing the smooth skin of her thighs - no he can't.

Not again.

Getting lost in vision of her, losing himself in a dream world where she teases and tempts him until he relents. It's wrong, he knows it, but still that dream comes creeping back into his mind, and he can't help letting it pull him in. Not now, not while she is here; it's one think back in his lonely LA apartment, sterile and crisp.

The blade nicks him before he has time to realize it, and the world drops back into focus in a rush of pain. Running his thumb over the site of the cut, his eye dilate and the mirror becomes a looking glass.

Why was he obsessed with her? He never missed a chance to tease her, or to point out all the stupid choices she's made. She always tease him back though; a smirk here, and punch to his arm there. They would yell and scream at each other, but within a day be sitting on the deck, eating popcorn and making fun of everyone they knew.

He can't take it any more, face clean, a thin shirt thrown on; he goes out into the room. She's sitting on the bed, back against the solid headboard and legs, long and lean, crossed at the ankles before her.

She doesn't say anything, magazine over her lap; bit of skirt peeking out from the glossy tab. The room is warm, even with the blinding white show outside; she smirks at him. Those eyes burning into him, asking him questions that he's rather hide in the shadows of the night. What now, just one night - then she'd be off to somewhere attempting to out run her own self, back and forth but always back to his arms.

Sitting on his bed, the one near the window, as always - something never change, he looks at her, not looking at him. She changed, molded herself to whatever they wanted, the men-boys-fathers. Tonight was shaping up to be the longest night he had ever been though, that is if she didn't kill him with her ice pick of silence.

"Shann, do you want anything to eat?"

Now, she's looking at him, those bored eyes, ringed with black liner.

"Just get a bottle of something, maybe I can drink this night away. I mean, I was going out, but this fucking snow - I'm suck with you."

The bitterness in her voice is so false to his ears, maybe it still works with her friends, but he knows that somewhere is a little girl that maybe just wants to spend some time with him.

_I know your name,_

I tip the room service man well, I don't want Mother to know that her perfect children where set on drinking themselves in to a stupor, on a holiday no less. A bottle of red for me, a bottle of champagne for you, vodka for the both of us - billed to the room. Let's drink ourselves into a dreamland of perfect anything.

You drink in silence, looking at me only when you are on your second shot and half the bottle is gone. We are good drinking buddies, always bottoms up, don't hold back. I'm too lazy to get the wine glass and drink the warm red from a water glass on the bedside table. This amuses you, I see your smirk, the glow on your cheeks to your temples.

Why do we always find ourselves like this?

Third shot gone and my head swims in that comforting numbness, I breach the gap. You hold your ground, sitting legs pushed under, so demurely - temptress. I'm leaning against the thick headboard, silly old fashion hotel, my bare toes could brush your legs; wonder if you'd mind?

_I know your skin,_

Your fingers play spider over my calves, long fingers capped in cherry red polish, gleaming like a sweet. Tart-taunt, make me yours. It's like the nights back in that empty house, us playing our game, knowing where they will end. That skirt of yours is high on your thighs, and your fingers make their way up, crawling on the sheets to me.

Sickeningly sweet smile, your eyes are dark from drink and the lights are low. I know you are the queen of this, of this game, how many men have your had like this, slack jawed and panting. But I just smile, don't let you have the upper hand - heart beating a tattoo in my veins.

Your kneeling beside my hips, shirt pulled down, freckles trailing down your neck. Your hand on my chest, fisting in my plain shirt. My fingers trace words on legs - sex, lust, sex. Eyes meet, and I know that this isn't some power play, something to lord over me at the dinner table. Just you and me giving into whatever. Just this once we say, but this isn't the first time. And it won't be the last.

_I know the way  
these things begin- _


End file.
